As a Christian, I am born of the Water and the Blood of Christ; diluted wine. But I struggle and fall, succeed and fail. I forget who I am. I become deluded wine.

Friday, December 28

When I was a young child, perhaps 7, I attended a church service that affected me deeply. It was around New Year's, and the pastor read aloud the names of those in the congregation who had died the previous year. After he had read the list, a soloist sang a song that almost made me cry with its loveliness and sentiment; I made a point to memorize the song. It is my practice to think of this song at New Year's, and to think of those in my life who have passed on.

It singeth low in every heart,We hear it each and all-A song of those who answer not,However we may call;They throng the silence of the breast,We see them as of yore-The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden upWhen these have laid it down;They brightened all the joy of life,They softened every frown;But, Oh, 'tis good to think of themWhen we are troubled sore!Thanks be to God that such have been,Though they are here no more.

More homelike seems the vast unknownSince they have entered there;To follow them were not so hard,Wherever they may fare;They cannot be where God is not,On any sea or shore;Whate'er betides, Thy love abides,Our God, forever more.

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I am an awkward, stubborn, slightly insane woman who would rather talk Plato than Prada, rather watch Frank Capra than Carrie Bradshaw, and rather listen to Norse myths sung in Icelandic than anything currently on the radio. Yeah. Told you I was weird.